


Filthy

by heartswells



Series: Repeat & Repair [1]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: (repost after deleting the original), Anxiety Attacks, Communication Issues, Intimacy, M/M, Mysophobia, OCD, Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, Oral Sex, germaphobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-29
Updated: 2020-01-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:27:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22457968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartswells/pseuds/heartswells
Summary: “I can barely kiss you. I don’t know why I thought I could do this,” Ryan grit out. He felt like he was tearing out stitches: ripping flesh, snapping wires, and inviting infection.
Relationships: Ryan Graves/Cale Makar
Series: Repeat & Repair [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1618057
Comments: 11
Kudos: 42





	Filthy

**Author's Note:**

> this is a repost, originally posted under a different pairing, of a fic i deleted for personal reasons.

Cale moaned softly, brushing his fingers through Ryan’s hair in tender praise. Ryan lost himself in the hum of euphoria and gratitude that Cale let slip, and he moaned in harmonious return, allowing their voices to echo in the room like a choir. Cale’s hands were gently tangled in Ryan’s hair, twirling the shaggy strands between his fingers like taffy. When Cale’s thumb swiped across Ryan’s forehead to relieve him of the sweat building on his skin, Ryan’s eyes fluttered open to look at Cale’s smile—

And then he reeled back and gagged. 

“Ryan?” Cale lurched forward in alarm. 

Ryan was shaking, shaking with the brutal, visceral terror of someone faced with the most terrible of their fears. He was rubbing a rough cotton towel over his mouth, scrubbing until his lips were red, raw, and split open. Several times, he spit and heaved into a glass of water on the bedside table, desperate to rid his mouth of Cale. 

Cale watched sadly and handed him the sanitizer on the nightstand. Ryan snatched it, slathering his hands and arms in the chemicals. It burned and the globules his skin could not absorb bleached the carpet beneath him, but it’s harshness grounded him, drawing him to the present. He drew in deep, labored breaths, satiating the panic in his mind as he breathed in long counts until he calmed. 

When Ryan looked up, he winced and whipped his gaze away from Cale’s with shame. 

“No, don’t do that, Ryan. Come here,” Cale soothed. Tenderly, he cupped Ryan’s cheek, allowing the warmth of his palm to bleed into his skin. 

“Please?” Cale whispered. 

“I’m sorry. I really wanted to try,” Ryan stammered. He dug his nails into his palm and watched the skin on his knuckles crack open at the strain. They were dried by bleach and alcohol, and the split pattern of red lines and cracked flesh made a gorey, scaly pattern. 

“It’s okay. I mean—thanks for trying. That means a lot. I never want you to be uncomfortable though, Ryan. I wish you wouldn’t torture yourself like this,” Cale said. His tone was bright with the overcompensated reassurance, but behind it was a well-hidden pain. 

Often, it felt like a deep, stabbing betrayal that Ryan would knowingly harm himself for the ideology of Cale’s pleasure. He felt deceived, almost manipulated, when Ryan talked his way into things Cale knew he wasn’t capable of. Always, he felt guilty as if he had hurt Ryan intentionally. Because no matter who made the decision, it was Ryan who fell back choking and shaking, not Cale. Even when Ryan’s intentions were pure, they felt selfish. They were not just at Ryan’s expense; they were at his own as well. 

But Ryan didn’t understand that. 

Insecurity speaks louder than love. 

“Ryan—”

“I can barely kiss you. I don’t know why I thought I could do this,” Ryan grit out. He felt like he was tearing out stitches: ripping flesh, snapping wires, and inviting infection. 

“Ryan, it’s okay,” Cale attempted to soothe, but suddenly Ryan’s eyes were burning with something far too close to _hatred_. 

“It’s _not_ okay,” Ryan growled. He smeared more sanitizer on his hands and rubbed it across his mouth. It seared. It made tears prickle his eyes. It made him feel clean. 

It made him feel _safe_ —safe from Cale, safe from himself. 

“Ryan, I love you more than sex.”

To Cale, it was so damn fucking _simple._ Not in the way of believing that Ryan’s experiences were senseless or invalid, but in the way that he loved Ryan. To Cale, that was all that mattered. He did not need sex as proof of love. Love was acceptance, loyalty, and compassion. 

Love was Ryan. 

“You’re being too hard on yourself, Ryan. We’ll get there eventually, but maybe not right now. There’s nothing wrong with that. I mean—look! We used to not even be able to kiss—”

“We still can’t always,” Ryan interceded furiously. 

“There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“There’s a _lot_ wrong with that.”

Sex was supposed to be pleasurable. Ryan wanted to taste Cale everywhere. He wanted to lavish in Cale and languish at his beauty. He wanted to _experience_ Cale in his physical form, in the body that contained an angel. He wanted to make Cale swear and tug his hair, curse his name and cry. He wanted to worship Cale until his purity was robbed. 

Ryan wanted to make Cale _unclean_ with _love._

Instead, he gagged and panicked. 

“Ryan, please,” Cale begged. He was reeling, caught in the trap of illness v. love. 

Ryan thought about how it would feel to kiss Cale in apology and show him his remorse through his body. Instead, he inhaled the poisonous scent of sanitizer and clung to it. 

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I know it hurts you,” Cale murmured, voice clouded with regrets he didn’t know how to voice. 

“I just don’t understand how I can love you so much and want you so badly, and then feel this way every time I touch you.” Ryan’s voice cracked. 

“...I feel so _filthy._ I want to scratch my skin off and drink bleach. And it’s you and I’m sorry, I love you so much but I can’t touch anything and it’s not your fault.” There was no inflection in Ryan’s voice. It made Cale flinch. Vindication and effort were lost. In its wake, nothing was left. 

“It’s not your fault either, Ryan. It’s OCD. It just _is.”_

Cale wasn’t sure who he was convincing anymore. He felt like he was whispering in the dark, soothing himself as a child when he woke from a nightmare with no one to help him. 

“All I want is to touch you, Cale, and I can’t.”

“That’s okay,” Cale soothed. 

But it wasn’t, and they both knew it. 

“I need to shower,” Ryan finally whispered. 

  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> once upon a time, this fic felt therapeutic. now it feels obscene. but something about leaving a piece i worked so hard on to rot in my docs drive feels wrong. writing about my ocd always feels wrong though. i just don’t understand it with a depth and clarity that is in any way comparable to how i understand my other disorders.
> 
> also, a small note to anyone who commented on the original: i have images of all of them saved. many of you left incredibly kind and heartfelt comments. i treasure them, and i just want you to know that they’re special to me. i didn’t lose anything that you were all so kind to say. i just want you to know that i respect them and would not erase them like they were nothing.


End file.
